Lessons in Rule-Breaking. Christy McKellen

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      ‘I don’t know, Jess.’ Pamela flipped her a look of deep scepticism.

      ‘Please, Pam, give me another chance to show you how I can make my writing sizzle.’ Jess leant forward in her chair, clasping her hands together in a prayer of hope. ‘It would be such a shame to miss out on the opportunity of interviewing him while he’s in the country.’

      ‘You think you’re up to handling someone like Xander Heaton, do you?’

      Jess sat up straighter, pulled taut by a thread of hope. ‘Of course I am. How difficult can he be?’

      She could have sworn she saw an amused smirk flit across Pamela’s face.

      ‘Okay, then,’ Pamela said, finally. ‘If he’s working with a model, make sure you talk to her, too, if you get the opportunity—see if you can get something interesting. What he’s like to work with, whether she’s sleeping with him, why he picked her as his model, anything to give the piece an edge. Try and get a sense of who he is, any personal details you can draw out of him. He’s got himself a reputation as a real playboy over the last year—he’s turned up to pretty much every high-profile party going and caused a scene at all of them—so see if you can get some gossip about what happened there. Oh, and try and find out why he hasn’t produced anything of note recently, too. His last exhibition was a real critical flop so that might have something to do with it. And most importantly, find out what he’s planning to do for his next project.’

      Jess was nodding so much her neck was starting to ache. ‘Okay, got it. No problem.’ She stood up and smiled at Pamela. ‘Thank you, for giving me another chance.’

      Pamela raised a severely plucked eyebrow. ‘Don’t waste this opportunity, Jess. If you want to keep your job on this magazine you’re going to have to pull something pretty special out of the bag.’

      * * *

      Pamela’s words rang in Jess’s ears as she took the tube over to Old Street.

      She made copious notes on the way, determined to remember everything Pamela had asked for.

      The train had just reached Moorgate station when it slowed down to a crawl, then stopped, midjourney.

      The driver’s voice came over the tannoy to let the passengers know there was an electrical fault with the train, but they were hoping to get it sorted out in a few minutes.

      Jess looked about her wildly; she was already running late to hit the allotted time for her interview with Xander and she didn’t want to turn up there flustered and on the back foot. She wanted him to be impressed with her cool professionalism and trust her enough to spill the sort of information she needed to make her piece stand out from the ones he’d done in the past.

      She’d seen pictures of him in the press—at parties with the great and good of London society, usually with some eminently beautiful woman hanging off his arm—and she knew in her bones he was going to be a challenge. If she was going to win him over she couldn’t allow herself to be daunted by that famous dark charisma and overabundance of sexual confidence.

      He was exactly the sort of man she usually avoided in real life. Bad-boy types who flitted from woman to woman like moths in a lighting shop were the antithesis of what she was looking for in a partner. She needed steady and safe. Comfortable. A relationship she could feel in control of.

      A nervous shiver tickled down her spine at the thought of facing him, but she shook it off. She was not going to let his challenging reputation get to her. She was a smart, savvy, professional woman and that was exactly what he was going to see—when she finally arrived there.

      She sat there for another fifteen minutes, tapping her feet and biting at a ragged fingernail until the train finally began its excruciatingly slow roll into Old Street station.

      She was now officially late for her interview.

      She hated being late. Hated it.

      Anything that took control out of her hands like this made her so stressed she felt ill with it.

      After a few more frustrating minutes of trying to figure out where she was meant to be going using the sat nav on her phone, she finally found the converted warehouse where Xander’s studio was located.

      Feeling sticky and jumpy after running all the way there in her heels, she stepped into the blissfully cool entrance lobby and looked at the list of names and businesses on the large brushed-metal sign. Xander’s studio was just one of a collection of spaces used by a group of high-profile artists and creatives.

      The place was shabby chic through and through with huge, squashy leather sofas scattered around a break-out kitchen area, all done out in stainless steel and black lacquer-fronted cupboards. Amazing murals had been painted on all the walls and Jess recognised one in Xander’s famously biting style. It was a social commentary on the state of reporting in the press. An open newspaper showed a picture of a child crying, with a meat cleaver slicing through the middle of it and the word HACK painted in big red bloody letters along the blade.

      Okay, she really needed to stop looking at that before the fear got to her. Did he really hate journalists that much? Would that make it even harder for her to conduct a successful interview with him?

      Only one way to find out.

      Gritting her teeth and smoothing down the jacket of her suit, she walked up the stairs to where Xander’s studio was located on the third floor.

      Taking a moment to get her breath back, she knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door to his studio and stood back to wait for him to appear, her hands grasped tightly behind her back and what she hoped was an open and friendly smile plastered across her face.

      There was the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door and Jess steeled herself as it swung open to reveal Xander Heaton, with a paintbrush in one hand and a look of tense annoyance on his face.

      Jess couldn’t help but stand and stare up at him as he towered over her. She’d anticipated him being somehow disappointing in the flesh, but he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.

      Paint-splattered jeans hung low on his hips and a grey cotton T-shirt clung tightly to the hard contours of his chest, making no effort whatsoever to disguise the swell of muscles on his rangy frame.

      Despite the hard angles of his bone structure there was something faintly boyish about him. Perhaps that was the key to his appeal? A hard alpha male on the outside with just a glimmer of a softer, more vulnerable soul inside.

      There was an almost ethereal glow about him, too, as if his charisma were being overmanufactured inside his body and the excess were spilling out through the pores of his skin.

      Even his just-rolled-out-of-bed, designer mess of rich chestnut-brown hair seemed to glow like a freshly shelled conker in the sunshine pouring in through the large warehouse windows.

      Jess’s body buzzed with longing to reach up and run her hands over his face, to feel the hard contours of his bones under that golden skin and the gentle rasp of his barely there stubble as it caught on the whorls of her fingertips.

      It took her a moment to realise he was staring at her mouth with his amazing, bright, aqua-coloured eyes and giving her an impatient frown as if he was utterly nonplussed by her appearance and thoroughly pissed off about being disturbed.

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